


Belittled

by fennharel



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Asphyxiation, Body Horror, Gen, Hanahaki Disease, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10016387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennharel/pseuds/fennharel
Summary: Not all love is romantic, and not all love is reciprocated.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who don't know, Hanahaki is a fictional illness born from one-sided love in which the patient coughs and throws up flower petals.  
> \---  
> Special thanks to Cath again for helping me beta this!! (◡‿◡✿) Cath u the real mvp

Michael J. Caboose shared bunk beds with Tucker. He had been delighted by the idea when they first told them they’d be sharing a room and he had called dibs on the top bunk before he even remembered to breathe. He had always wanted to have the top bunk; it was closest to the ceiling and thus, closest to the sky. But it was only after the first night that he regretted his choice due to the many, many pee-pee trips he had to take.

The first nights were tough, damn his little bladder, and even though he considered asking Tucker to switch, he never got himself to do so. He just figured it must be really nice to be able to get to your room and crash on the comfort of a soft mattress after a very tiring day without having to do one more little climb before being able to rest. Of course, he’d like that too, but when he was little, he had been taught to treat people the way you’d like to be treated, and it was thus the reason he let Tucker have the reassurance of the easily-reachable bunk even when he disliked him.

This night, however, he really did wish he had had the bottom bunk. 

As Caboose was lying down facing the ceiling, swinging his feet gently and not helping his little smile, thinking about all the friends he’d made so far and how much he loved them, he felt a sudden pressure in his chest. He tried to breathe in deeply only to find he wasn’t able to. He sat up, wheezing, and reached to clutch his chest. He felt a tickling sensation in his throat and like something was growing and rasping the inside of his lungs. He tried to breathe in once more, but there was something inside blocking the way. He was choking, and he wasn’t sure what with. He wasn’t even sure what was happening to him.

Caboose croaked, quickly covering his mouth with both hands to try and keep quiet. He held back a cough, his body convulsing in response and only making him cough harder until he couldn’t hold it anymore and couldn’t bring himself to stop.

For a moment he thought the moisture he felt in his hands was spit, but when he pulled his hands away from his face and squinted to see, he couldn't help a little gasp. It made him cough a bit more, but he climbed down quickly (careful not to close his hand and squeeze what he had just coughed up) and prodded Tucker’s shoulder to awake him.

“Tucker,” he began. He tried to whisper, but he wasn't entirely good at that. “Hey, Tucker,” he prodded again, getting a sleepy grunt in response. “Tuuucker. Are you awake?”

“Caboose?” His voice was groggy and raspy with sleep. “What the fuck, dude?”

“Tucker. I just coughed up a flower.”

“That's— dude,” despite still being half asleep, the annoyance was crystal clear in his voice. “Go the fuck back to sleep, you're still dreaming. 

“No, Tucker, look! I coughed up a flow—”

He was staring at his hand and the pasty, slobbery petals lying on it. This wasn't a dream, but Tucker wasn't having it.

“ _ Go back to sleep, Caboose,” _ Tucker hissed, turning on his side to face the wall and give Caboose his back. 

Right. Perhaps he's too tired from all the training Agent Washingtub was putting him under. Perhaps he really was imagining all this. Sometimes it was hard for him to tell what was real or not, so maybe this wasn't any different. 

“... Okay,” he replied gently in one of his not-so-subtle whisper attempts and climbed back to bed, the small ladder creaking under his weight. “Good night, Tucker.”

The squeezing feeling in his lungs wasn't going away, though. In fact, it was getting worse. He had felt a pressure and a weird sensation in his chest many times before, and like something was growing in there, but whenever he brought it up he was told that he was probably just tired. 

He wiped his hand on the covers, thinking that maybe Tucker was right. He remembered having heard about people getting “sick with the flowers” when he was little, but that's as far as he remembered: a vague mention and something about your love not being reciprocated.

Caboose sat in his bed for a while, trying to think about it. He found it difficult since his trail of thoughts was as fragile as a strand of rain, but eventually he got there. People coughed up flowers when they didn't feel loved by the person they loved. That's what he remembered—he was probably making it up or completely changing the concept, but he was sure he got it right. 

If he was certain of that, though… Why was  _ he  _ spitting flowers? His body trembled with a cough he held and it shook the thought off his mind. He giggled softly at a little snore coming from Tucker and decided it was time to go back to sleep.

Another coughing fit stopped him the second he was about to lay down. He felt nauseous and gagged at the feeling of  _ something  _ rasping his throat from the inside. 

The thought of the flowers struck him back and Caboose whined, clueless and confused and frustrated. Why was he sick with the flowers if he loved no one but his friends and they loved him back?

Because despite everyone dismissing him, calling him names, reminding him how stupid and slow he was, avoiding him and belittling him was all a part of their friendship, right? That's how the guys got along… Right?

Because pushing him away when he wanted to hug them all and never being told “you too” whenever he said “you’re a good friend” was how they showed their love for him, right? 

Everyone showed love in different ways just as much as everyone coped with things differently. Caboose was sure he was loved even if he wasn't told so; he made sure to remind himself of that  _ every single time _ they pushed him away. They weren't being mean, they were just busy!

A sudden pang in his chest got him wheezing again. He gagged, feeling like his intestines were trying to crawl their way out through his mouth. 

He was going to hurl, so he scrambled up and hurried down the bunk, missing a step in his haste and slipping down with a little cry the rest of the way. 

“Caboose—!” He heard Tucker’s voice begin and the sheets ruffling, but he hurried out and couldn't make out the rest. 

He ran, locking himself in the bathroom and heaving before reaching the toilet. 

He hunched over, trying to catch the flowers into his hands and collapsed on his knees when the contractions of his stomach and the spasms of his body wouldn't allow him to stay up anymore. 

He was silent when barfing, bluebells and irises blooming out nonstop, filling his throat and mouth and not leaving a tiny crack even for a noise to come out, vines tangling around his uvula and leaves blocking the way. The petals tasted sour, and the smell was overwhelming. They were all flowing like a waterfall, except uglier and messier, and Caboose was asphyxiating for they wouldn't stop coming out. 

Shakily, he dragged himself over to the toilet and embraced it. He pushed, frustrated, eager to be done hurling and gasp for air, but instead of coming close to an end it seemed like it'd never stop. 

The flowers kept coming out, scratching his throat from the inside, tickling and threatening to come out of his nose, too. It burned, and his stomach was sore from the contractions. His limbs felt numb and his head was about to explode. The pressure was too much and his mouth wasn't nearly big enough for the whole  _ garden _ to come out.

Slobbering and tearing up from the effort his body was making, he let out a muffled cry when the next couple of vines and flowers came out tinted scarlet and a metallic taste was left in his mouth. 

Blood wasn't foreign to him (he was a soldier, for God’s sake), but he was surprised to see any in this situation. 

When the amount of flowers seemed to be decreasing and finally gave air a chance, Caboose gasped hoarsely, leaning back and panting. 

His face was wet with sweat, tears, snot, and saliva, but he was breathing again. He was still coughing up some bitten petals and leaves, but at least he could now breathe. He was red and hot, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath in between coughs. He stuck out his tongue and picked a vine that got stuck in there, regretting it the moment he pulled at it only to feel it wasn’t just in his mouth but still lead the way into his intestines. He pulled at it, sighing along instinctively until he got it all the way out and gasped for air once more before turning to the toilet and going at it for a second round. 

Both the floor and toilet were covered in blue and lilac pasty petals, vines,  _ twigs _ , and fully bloomed flowers and leaves covered in slick saliva and blood. He could make  _ bouquets  _ with all of these. Maybe he should wash them and put them in a pot for gardening. He was scared, out of breath and gross, but he couldn't deny the flowers were pretty. 

A knock in the door startled him, making him scramble up and reach for the toilet paper to clean his face, blow his nose and start cleaning his flowery mess. 

“Uhh…!” He was down on his knees in a second, toilet paper around his hand like a glove and picking handfuls of leaves and weeds to throw into the toilet. “Occupied!” He coughed, a single petal splattering the floor with blood.

“You okay in there, dude?” 

“You should take the day off tomorrow, Caboose,” they sounded muffled by the closed door, but he recognised the familiar voices of Tucker and Agent Washingtub.

“Y-Yeah! I’m…” He reached for more paper to clean. “I’m okay! I’m just… I’m okay! I’m fine!”

He heard their voices still talking, but his ears were ringing and he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. He didn’t want to worry his friends with him throwing up flowers; they probably wouldn’t even believe him, anyway, so he digressed.

Caboose was sad he had to throw the flowers away. He could just wash them and grow them in the Gulch, or even possibly make tea, but he  _ had _ to clean all this asap. He apologised gently to the flowers as he finished cleaning and flushed the toilet.

He gasped when the flowers clogged the toilet, smacking himself on the forehead for not thinking about that. He flushed again, only making the water keep running into the bowl and eventually spill along with the flowers.

He really should’ve taken them elsewhere, he though. It was the middle of the night and he had no idea how to unclog a toilet; he could barely tie his own shoes and he needed Church to pack his lunch, so of course he didn't know how to deal with this mess.

Caboose sat down on the floor, his back leaning on the wall. He was stained with a few droplets of blood and was still trying to catch his breath. He had stopped coughing and throwing up, but he could still feel pasty petals stuck in his throat.

He put his head on his hands, having no idea how to deal with a clogged toilet or with flowers growing in his lungs and stomach. He had no idea what to do, and he felt alone and hopeless.

**Author's Note:**

> Bluebells represent humility and Irises friendship.
> 
> \------  
> I'm waiting to see how this goes, I have a potential sequel for this in my drafts but I guess I'll take it slow (◡‿◡✿) so please comment and let me know what you thought! I'd rly appreciate it!✨


End file.
